


Rot

by Atqueinstupracaballum



Category: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Corpses, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Paranoia, Post-Canon, musing by the fireplace gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25479739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atqueinstupracaballum/pseuds/Atqueinstupracaballum
Summary: Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor. "He must be buried here," he said, hearkening to the sound."Or he may have fled," said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door in the by-street. It was locked; and lying near by on the flags, they found the key, already stained with rust. - The Last Night, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Kudos: 18





	Rot

**Author's Note:**

> It occurred to me after reading the novel that if Utterson heeded Jekyll's will and took his home for himself, he would have to sit there in his old friend's home with the suspicion that somewhere on the property Jekyll's dead body was buried. That is incredibly fucked up, so of course, I eventually had to write something with it. 
> 
> it should perhaps also be noted for context that I'm writing with the headcanon in mind that Utterson can not bring himself to believe anything in Lanyon's and Jekyll's letters concerning Jekyll being hyde. its too bizarre, to unnatural and impossible sounding, I cannot imagine him excepting any of it as truth. Instead, I always imagined he marked it off as madness, delusions, shock tired minds worked to thin until they snapped (more so concerning Jekyll's letter).

"Is that all you require, sir?" Poole was referring to the glass of gin he had brought Mr. Utterson. The lawyer nodded, giving Poole leave for the night. It was late. Far later than the lawyer ever had any reason to stay up under any other circumstance. There was nothing for it. "Very well," the old man's expression softened into something sadder as he beheld his new master nursing his drink by the fireplace. there was understanding in that gaze. Pity, even. "Good night, Mr. Utterson," the lawyer had refused to be called 'master' in his new position, not by Poole. It had not felt right. Sir would suffice. Utterson gave an appreciative grunt to the servant, eyes never leaving the fireplace. 

It crackled in a familiar way, its flames were no different than the ones which had laid in his own hearth, in his own dwellings. They were a comfort to look at. At least, they should have been, they _usually_ were. Tonight he observed shadows that belonged to the past, wild and out of line, of papers consumed by orange tongues of flame, of unfamiliar ashes settling upon the logs and charcoal below.

_'...a bed of coals is the only resting place for such letters as that.'_ The safest place for such wretched displays of mental decay was complete nonexistence. Burning those letters had been his last, parting kindness to the poor men he called his friends. Mercy, the action had been intended as a mercy for all of them.

Despite the warmth of the gloomy room, a queer chill draped the lawyer just as well as a greatcoat might. The cold brought with it restlessness. The restlessness brought on its heels more shadow images. Utterson closed his eyes, as though that would displace the claws of paranoia stroking the innermost crevices of his stomach. Bad move. 

The house was to quiet. 

Every small creak echoed like a cannon shot aimed right at his already aggravated nerves. The floorboards gave a shout, at times when tested. Every shift and creak was beginning to sound more and more like laughter.

The house was taunting him. Sneering at him, holding the body of poor old Harry, what rot was left of him, back from him, back from the burial that befitted him...but that was absurd.

It was a house, an inanimate object with no will or want of its own...And yet it had been once filled by a man with wants and wills -for better or worst-, two men, for that matter -and that second man's will was truly for the worst-. That man, that vermin, had been removed, laid to rest in a grave that befitted his low nature. While the other, the better, on the other hand...

The mirrors of this house knew the truth. Utterson did not. The walls seemed to crawl with the writhing phantoms of unspoken sins, yet unable, or unwilling, to vent it out. The floorboards shrieked in their own language as if calling to the lawyer: ** _'Here! Under here! Look if you dare! Stoop down and peak!'_**

There were days when he wanted to rip down the entire cursed mansion, just to put all of this to rest once and for all. There were other days when he simply wanted to leave, go back to his comfortable, plain, bachelor flat, return to familiar territory, and let time take from his mind what it could carry. 

The house was to _bloody_ quiet. 

_"He could have fled,"_ his own words returned to him, as they so often fancied doing. He had taken them back halfway through Jekyll's disastrous 'statement'. No. He was dead. It was either suicide or murder. If Utterson had to pin one as the most likely culprit, he would have said suicide. But in that case, how...He sighed, there was nothing for it. 

The thought of Jekyll hiding away to put an end to himself was perhaps less shocking then it should have been. Clear as day images bombarded him, Henry stumbling away to some dark, forgotten corner of his mansion, feverish, overcome, ill, horrendously ill, with only a revolver to keep him company, or perhaps the shards of some wine bottle. Alone, in the dark, shivering like some cold dog, his only solace found in the fact that he could make his cowardice look like a murder. Utterson had seen him in such a pitiful state before. None of this _surprised_ him. 

But that did not make it any less horrible. 

' _madness_ ,' he attempted to grip hold of himself. 

he heard a creak. footsteps? he stood with gritted teeth, breaking the trance. 

' _all of it was madness_.' 


End file.
